there was an empty seat on the bus this spring,
i was waiting for your carcass scent-
bold promises and (gasp) optimism;
in the face of feigned suicide.

life breathed just a little easier then,
traveling just slow enough to hop that metro-
and take it worlds not yet spoiled by indulgence.

the culmination of what we'd hoped would be our chance at last;
to behold the shutter-stop eye,
where every frame is magic.

was i an object then? or could you subjectify me, if only for that ride?
could you tell me that i was all you needed?
or could anyone? surely not maslow...

we took on the world! or did we?
maybe i just took you onto me and never let you go.



and so i didn't ride,
i let that mammoth pass and read the wire in borders for an hour,
two hours; does the passing of time even hope to
foster the spirit of cybernetic sundays and mcarthur's : : :
what ever happened to your bakery anyway?
what ever happened to any of the goals that made me love you.

when you closed that shuttle door
you spurned more than the SUMMER OF LOVE.
you ended the empire.

but i should have known,
not to trust the daubed status-
the trigger-heart snare
peripherals paint the prettiest mistakes.